


The Barnes Identity

by findingbarnes



Category: Bourne (Movies), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Amnesia, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes-centric, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4453223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/findingbarnes/pseuds/findingbarnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A nameless man awakens abroad a fishing trawler.</p><p>He has no memory of his past and only two fresh bullet wounds in his back indicating he even had one.</p><p>Soon he learns things he would rather have left forgotten.</p><p>A TWS/BOURNE AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**“...the past gives you an identity and the future holds the promise of salvation. Both are illusions.”  – Eckhart Tolle** _

__

**identity** |īˈdentitē|

   noun (pl. **identities** )

   The fact of being who or what a person or thing is: _he knows the identity of the bombers_ | _she believes she is the victim of mistaken identity._   

    **ORIGIN** late 16th cent. (in the sense _**‘quality of being identical’**_ ): from late Latin **_identitas_** , from Latin **_idem ‘same.’_**

 

    **ghost** |gōst|

   noun

   An apparition of a dead person that is believed to appear or become manifest to the living, typically as a nebulous image: _the building is haunted by the ghost of a monk_ | figurative: _the ghosts of past deeds._

**ORIGIN** Old English gāst (in the sense ‘ ** _spirit, soul_** ’), of Germanic origin; related to Dutch _**geest**_ and German **_Geist_**. The _gh_ \- spelling occurs first in Caxton, probably influenced by Flemish **_gheest_**.

__

THE NEW YORK TIMES

FRIDAY, 13 FEBRUARY 2014

FRONT PAGE

**DIRECTOR OF CIA FOUND DEAD IN A PARIS APARTMENT**

Paris, 13 February – Col. Nicholas Fury, the late director of the Central Intelligence Agency, was found dead in a Latin Quarter apartment on February 10.   

  Director Fury was in Paris for the negotiations of a still classified nature but it is widely speculated that the negotiations were linked to the expulsion of three high-ranking French diplomats.   

  The police have given up very few details regarding the ongoing investigation, but it is rumored that the killing was connected to the world-wide search for a man known by the codename ‘Crossbones’, who is believed to be an important link in an international terrorist network.    

  In addition to being accused of Director Fury’s murder, the suspect, whose real name is yet to be released to the public, is being sought for the killing of two American counter-intelligence agents and a French informant, which took place only two weeks earlier, and not far from the location where Director’s Fury’s body was discovered.    

  The four killings have led the police both in France and Britain to what they feel is the trail of a major network of international terrorist agents. In the search for ‘Crossbones’, French and British policemen discovered large arms caches that linked him to major terrorist acts and led them to suspect a connection between the many that have occurred recently throughout Europe, and even as far away as New York City.

**REPORTEDLY SEEN IN LONDON**

Since the Paris killings ‘Crossbones’ has been reportedly seen in London and in Berlin.

 

ASSOCIATED PRESS

TUESDAY, 9 FEBRUARY 2014

**HIGH-RANKING FRENCH GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS BANISHED**

Three of France’s most prominent government officials have been sent into exile. Among them, Georges Batroc, a famed politician known for his firm stand on  international cooperation and booming tirades against the Central Intelligence Agency.   

  Batroc, along with two of his countrymen – both just as high-ranking as Batroc himself – were seen being escorted aboard a plane yesterday evening. The destination of the plane is classified and it is yet unconfirmed whether the officials have found asylum in Europe or not.   

  The cause of the banishment is still unofficial but much speculation has arisen in the absence of official statements. Most common is the theory that the exile was a result of the triple killing that took place on January 28.     

  The hunt for the internationally-known assassin ‘Crossbones’ started not long after the confirmed murders of two American agents and a French civilian, and has so far put four women and three men into custody in two capitals, accused of offences in his wake.    

  The assassin himself has vanished – perhaps to Berlin, the French police believe. Amongst conspiracy theorists it is widely believed that the three banished officials were somehow involved in the killings and assisting ‘Crossbones’ in fleeing the country.    

  Enforcing these conspiracies, whenever the three officials travelled – to Marseilles, the Hague or Berlin – there were reports of gunfire, bombs detonating, and the kidnappings of prominent people.   

  A breakthrough occurred in Paris, when two American agents came into possession of a crucial piece of evidence against the assassin. Five hours after they called the information in, the agents, along with a civilian, were found dead in an apartment in South Paris.   

 Police found the assassin’s guns, and notebooks containing a ‘death list’ of prominent people. Amongst them was the name of the Director of the CIA. 


	2. Chapter 2

There was only darkness.

  Water.

  Cold, murky water, somewhere south of Italy, far away on the open sea.    

  A searchlight grazed over the black ocean swells. A few flashlights, fainter than the searchlight, joined in. The beams raced over the deck of the trawler and onto the surface of the sea, circling a dark spot in the billowing ocean.   

  The flashlights illuminated the blackness of the water and revealed something in the ocean. A raft...     

  “Something in the water,” a voice aboard the trawler called.    

  Sailors on the deck looked over to the lit up spot.   

  All the men collectively gasped.   

  Murmurs filled the deck, three, four languages spoken all at once, a few Italian curses muttered as the men peered at the limp body on the flimsy raft.   

  “A body in the water,” someone finally shouted over the uneasy chatter, in an almost steady tone.    

  The men hauled the corpse onboard. They gathered round it and studied the dead man in silence.    

  “God, look at him,” one of the sailors whispered, his voice gruff and quiet.    

  A man with a bushy beard and deep lines around his eyes and forehead turned to face the other sailor. “What is it? Never seen a dead body before?” he asked, frowning at the corpse.   

  The other man shook his head. “It’s not that. Look.” He kneeled down and nudged at the corpse’s back. “He was shot.” His hands went to touch the dead man’s back, and the two entry wounds of the bullets sunken into his flesh.   

  The bearded man’s face turned into faint grimace. “Don’t do that.”   

  “He’s dead. Do you think he cares?”   

  The bearded sailor pushed the other man’s hand away. “Have some respect for the d–”   

  The body moved. Slowly at first, but then it started to jerk violently. The dead man’s shoulders shook as he coughed out sea water. He gasped for air, ragged and broken, and started to breathe. His eyes widened as he looked around in shock.   

  The sailors jumped back, startled, as the man coughed between broken breaths. He unclasped his death grip on the driftwood raft and fell on his side. He drew a few hoarse breaths and abruptly lost consciousness.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The nameless man looked at his hands and the knot he’d managed to tie. It was a bowline. He didn’t know how he’d tied it, he didn’t know why he knew its name, and he didn’t know what to do with it.   

  Giancarlo shifted behind him.

  “So it’s coming back to you,” the old man spoke softly.

  The man turned around and tossed away the knot. “No. It’s not coming back. I just touched the rope and I did it. The same way I make my coffee, the same way I speak all these languages. It is not fucking coming back.”

  The ship rocked beneath his feet, and he momentarily lost his balance.   

  The fishing trawler had picked him up two weeks earlier. The captain, Giancarlo, had patched the man up, and offered him shelter and food in exchange for labor. The man worked on the trawler just like the other sailors. His hands being able to do things his mind had no memory or knowledge of. Between helping to man the ship and studying the map of the location the fishermen had found him at, the man did little else.    

  He kept to himself, didn’t play cards or drink with the rest of the crew. He could understand their talk, though.    

  That was strange.    

  He had counted five different languages spoken on the trawler. He understood and spoke them all perfectly.    

  Other than the languages, what troubled him was his headache.    

  Ever since he’d stirred awake after Giancarlo had treated his injuries, two bullet holes in his back, he’d been suffering a continuous headache. It kept him from sleeping, resting, sometimes even eating.    

  Sometimes the headache was a dull thud in his forehead; other times it was a sharp gash at the back of his head, like glass shards nesting in his brain, combing through his hazy memories.    

  “It will come back,” Giancarlo insisted.    

  The man looked the old sailor in the eyes and locked his jaw. “What if it doesn’t?”

  Giancarlo placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Rest. It will come back.” The captain retreated from the room, leaving the unnamed man alone with his thoughts.    

  The man moved his gaze back to his hands. He studied the lines and callouses forming in his palms. His fingers were long and moved with great precision. He assumed it meant he'd had a lot of training before the amnesia.  

  He turned his hands around and studied the backs of his palms in turn. Green veins were prominent under his pale skin, moving around his hands and forearms like tiny wayward rivers. His knuckles were slightly bruised and he had three faint scars on the side of his right hand.   

  “I don’t even have name,” he whispered to himself running his fingers through his hair.

  He had spent many hours studying himself in the mirror. His hair was brown. His eyes were blue. He had a cleft in his chin and a square jaw. He had prominent dark circles under his eyes and lines around his mouth. He wasn’t sure if the latter two were signs of fatigue or a part of his normal appearance.   

  He still couldn't remember anything before the past two weeks spent on the ship.

  He walked to the mirror and frowned at his reflection. “Do you know who I am?” he asked himself. “I don’t know who I am.” He growled at the mirror and huffed.    

  “Tell me who I am,” he scowled and placed his fist on the smooth surface. His eyes had widened and he felt panic in his chest. He shot the mirror one more disgusted look and then forced himself to turn away.

  The boat rocked and the man took a step back to balance himself. He retreated from the mirror and turned his attention the desk at the other end of the room. There was a bowl with a microchip in it. Giancarlo had found it embedded in the man's hip while he'd been changing his bandages.

  They’d studied the microchip and came to the conclusion that it was for a bank account in Switzerland.

  It was the man’s only lead, so Switzerland was his next destination.

***

The ship brought him ashore at Oneglia Port.     

  Giancarlo had given the man money and clothes. “It’s not much,” he said with regret in his voice, and handed him a bag.     

  “Thank you,” the man simply said.      

  “Goodbye.” Giancarlo shook the man’s hand and the man suddenly realized it was the last time the two of them would see each other. He felt a deep sense of gratitude for the man responsible for saving his life, but he had no way of showing it, so he just looked the old captain in the eyes and nodded.

  The captain responded with a firm nod and turned around. He made his way back to his trawler disappearing into the sea of people roaming by the docks.    

  The man slung the bag over his back and hunched his shoulders forward against the rain as he started to make his way to the train station.  

  “A ticket for one. Zurich,” he asked the vendor. “Please,” he rushed to add while searching his bag for money. He tapped the counter impatiently with his index finger as he waited for the scrawny man sitting behind the glass to count the money and hand him the change.

  He flinched twice. The noises were too loud after the two weeks spent on the open sea where all he heard were the waves the curses of old sailors.

  “Have a pleasant trip,” the vendor said, and handed him a ticket and some crumpled Euro bills.

  “Thank you,” the man responded and hurriedly grabbed the money and the ticket and rushed to the platform.

  The speakers announced that the train to Zurich was leaving in ten minutes.

  As soon as he sat down on the train, the lights blinded him.

  He felt his head jerk back, sinking into the headrest of the soft chair. Suddenly it felt like he was held underwater in a firm grip. He gasped for air, lungs raspy and throat dry. His head jerked back again, this time hitting the metal edge of the seat, and blood filled his mouth as he tried to level his breath. A dull pain beat at the back of his head a he struggled to keep breathing.    

  He saw numbers. Shiny gray plaques secured to a rough, brown wall.

_55–_

  Blue costumes… a hospital, he was in a hospital. Everyone’s movements seemed slow and weary. There were no faces.     

  Except one.     

  Long hallways, never-ending corridors.  Bland gray after bland gray. He was walking down a corridor with numerous doors that opened to nothing.     

  “Send him in,” a voice echoed down the hallway.    

  Pain. Excruciating pain in his lungs, in his chest, his abdomen. More blinding white lights and a cloudy veil obscuring his vision. It was almost as if he was watching the situation from far away, his consciousness removed from his body.    

  “Will you commit to this program?” the same voice grumbled, steady and sure.    

  He felt numbing pain in his left arm. Someone was sticking icicles under his skin and twisting them every time he dared to breathe. The ice slashed his flesh. He grasped his left arm and suffocated a cry.    

  “I can’t,” he whispered hoarsely and twisted in agony.    

  Dog tags clinked against a metal table.    

  “Will you commit to this program?” the voice asked again.    

  The white lights were still dancing in front of his eyes, when a hazy voice interrupted his struggle.    

  “I can’t,” the man croaked and held his stomach.    

  “Sir, are you alright?”        

  The man regained his composure and nodded carefully, the back of his head pulsating from pain. “Yes, thank you,” he responded from between his teeth, still blinded by the bright lights flashing behind his eyes. “Bad ravioli,” he said and tried to force a smile to the voice’s general direction.    

  He was vaguely aware that he was still squeezing his eyes shut and clutching the armrest so hard his fingers were cramping.    

  “Would you like some water?” the voice asked, still cautious.    

  The man shook his head. His abdominal muscles crunched in agony. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”    

  His chest felt tight, like someone had tied him up and was holding him against a flat surface, pressing him down with unwavering hands. His right hand felt heavy, similar to clutching a gun. _Exactly_ like he was clutching a gun. The weight felt familiar, almost pleasantly so. His index finger was tense around the trigger, itching to pull it. The surface of the cold metal was smooth against his palm.

  It took him three more deep breaths to calm down enough to open his eyes. There were no more lights, just a curious old face studying him carefully. The man flashed the old woman a small smile then shifted in his seat. The hand that had just been weighed down by a gun felt weightless, but his stomach still felt sore.    

  He turned his attention to the window and the darkness outside. The dark had swallowed everything, only a few flickers of light illuminating the surroundings every few minutes remained. It was soothing. The shadow was soft and calming compared to the violent sharp lights he'd just seen.     

  The man stared at his reflection in the window, his headache slowly growing in the back of his brain. The words were still booming in his mind.

_“Will you commit to this program?”_


	4. Chapter 4

Going to the bank had been a mistake.

  After writing the number of his vault on a piece of paper that the man then proceeded to hand to the clerk, he was escorted to a small stall with heavy red curtains.

  The man looked around him, a voice in his head screaming words that made no sense.

_Exit._

  Once a briefcase-like gray box had been brought to him, he pulled the curtain of his stall and turned to face the little table in the corner of the booth and the increasingly menacing-looking box on it.

  The clerk had left the key in the lock and nodded at the man courteously before retreating and giving him the privacy he needed.

  The man looked at the key. He felt a frown tugging at this eyebrows as he studied the lock. Slowly, his eyes slid from the lock to the side of the shiny box fixing on his blurry reflection on its surface.

  He took a deep breath, deeper than his lungs could stand, then turned the key in the lock.

  The key slid smoothly in its place and opened the lock with a soft click.

  The man swallowed back all the disturbing thoughts he’d managed to create on his train ride to Zurich.

  He remembered his first night in the city.

  He’d tried to sleep on a park bench. It had been 20 degrees below Celsius, his breath had been visible in front of his mouth like the smoke of a freshly extinguished campfire, but it had to do.

  Then two park rangers had come and told him to leave.

  “Let me see some papers,” one of the rangers had called after wiggling his flashlight in front of the man’s eyes.

  “I don’t– I don’t have any papers,” the man spoke. After a beat, he realised he’d spoken forgeign words. German. He recovered quickly. “I– I lost them,” he added steadily. The man gazed down feeling his breathing grow shallow in his chest.

  “Alright, get up. The park is closed,” the same ranger had said and tried to pat the man with his baton.

  It all happened between two heartbeats.

  The man had rushed to his feet and with a swift kick aimed at one of the rangers’ kneecap and a fist aimed at the other’s neck, he'd incapacitated the two men. He 'd then taken their guns and disassembled them, his hands performing tasks he wasn't even aware of. The parts fell from his hands. As they hit the ground, the man flinched. 

  The two men had collapsed on the white bed of snow crying in agony as he took a step back to examine the scene. Terror filled his mind. His breathing was shallow as he stared at the rangers in panic. His hands were still extended in front of him, but they weren’t trembling. They were sure and steady, like they had done the same thing hundreds of times before, and this one was no different. Like it was normal.

  Whatever it was that he’d just done, normal people didn’t do that.

  Normal people didn’t know how to disarm two trained rangers. He shook his head and fled the scene.

  Now, his eyes focused on the shiny box. Its smooth lines and sharp edges almost seemed malevolent.

  “Fuck it,” he murmured under his breath and pushed the lid up.

  The contents of the box were less disturbing than he’d anticipated.

  His heart almost jumped out of his chest, but then after his eyes had scanned the contents of the box, his breathing slowly evened out and his heart rate returned to normal.

   There was a wristwatch, cases for contact lenses and some basic office equipment.

  And a passport.

  He grabbed the passport, mildly realising his hands were shaking as he clumsily hurried to turn the cover to find the page with his name and picture. He let out a long puff of air.

  “James Barnes. My name is James Barnes.” His knees were quivering, threatening to yield under his weight, when he placed the passport back into the box. “That is my name,” he whispered and leaned his back against the wall of the booth. His head hit the wooden wall with a dull thud and the man, James Barnes, let out a sigh.   

  He closed his eyes and allowed himself few slow, deep breaths. A weight fell off his shoulders and he sighed again. Before returning to the box, he ran his hand over his face, callouses scraping his cheeks and stubble tingling his palm. He was almost floating. Gravity had no hold on him, with every step he took, he risked drifting away and disappearing. Unfortunately, he was still grounded and there were still too many unanswered questions. Floating away and disappearing could wait.

  He stooped over the box and studied the other things in it. His fingers hovered over the objects, sometimes diving in close enough for his fingertips to brush their surface. He realized his thumb grazed over a French driver’s license.   

  “I live in Paris,” he whispered softly nodding to himself as he picked it up and turned it around in his hands. The worn down pink paper was soft and flexible under his fingers. He opened the booklet and squinted at the small writing in it.  

  "I live in Paris," he repeated in a reassuring tone.   

  He was trying to grab the credit cards, there were four of them, when the box clinked.   

  It had a false bottom. 

  He grabbed the upper box by its corners and pushed it aside revealing a secret compartment.

  His stomach plummeted to his feet as his eyes scanned over the contents hidden underneath the false bottom.  

  “Fuck,” he uttered, unable to focus his eyes on any one thing. His hand edged to cover his open mouth. "Fuck."   

  The box was filled with money. Wads of U.S. dollars, Euros, British Pounds and numerous other currencies lined it. It wasn't the money that made him feel light-headed. It what was on top of the wads of cash.   

  A gun. A SIG-sauer P220, to be precise. It's black surface seemed to absorb all the light coming from the strong fluorescent lights in the booth. The smooth surface of the barrel glimmered and James knew exactly how the gun would feel in his hand, what it weighed and how fast it shot out bullets. He even knew what it smelled like. James lost his balance for a moment and stumbled backwards.The smell of gunpowder filled his nose. A flat surface pressed against his back.   

  Next to the gun there were five other passports with five different covers, denoting five different nationalities.

  With shaky hands, he reached for them and shuffled through each one, his breath becoming more shallow with every passport he looked at. They all belonged to man with his face. In the Canadian passport, he was named Paul Kay and he had brown eyes. In the Brazilian passport, his name was Gilberto de Piento and his hair was black and short, his eyes blue. Among the passports there was also a blank sheet of paper.

  The paper looked like it belonged in a file but had been removed. There was a paper-clip imprint in the upper left corner and four small holes from two removed staples. The whole paper was blacked out, redacted by some sort of agency, James knew. Only three words were visible on the page. Three barely visible words in the lower right corner. Winter Soldier Program.

  Something snapped in James' mind. His abdominal muscles contracted, sending him diving forward. He placed his elbow on the surface of the desk for balance. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and let out a trembling breath. “What the fuck is going on?”

  With great effort, he straightened himself up and eyed the box, his eyes more angry than curious. The bank had offered more questions than answers. He grabbed the red canvas sack from under the table. The fabric felt heavy and coarse against his fingers as he opened it. James made a face at the box while loading its contents into the bag. He systematically picked up the wads of money from around the gun, avoiding touching it, barely even looking at it. Finally, he dared to glance at it. He left it in the box.

  With extreme care, he peeled the curtains open and bit the inside of his cheek.

   _Exit_.

  There were two guards in the lobby and one more at the elevator. James walked past the first two and nodded at them, then continued forward not waiting for their responses. He made his way to the elevator with steadier feet and more determined steps than he’d thought possible given his situation. He pressed the elevator button once, then impatiently three more. He felt the guard's eyes on him. His heartbeat was quickening.

  As the elevator's doors opened with a quiet ding, he stepped in and pressed his back flat against the wall. He forced his breathing to slow down as he waited for the doors to close. Finally, he sighed no longer feeling eyes on him.

  The cold winter air hit him like a swift knife in the gut. He was suddenly all too aware of his surroundings. There were too many people on the street, even the smallest sound seemed menacing. He saw a phone booth and almost ran to it.

  After calming himself enough to be able to dial the number with minimal shaking of hands, he called the phone number he’d found in the deposit box. _His phone number._

_“This is James Barnes, I’m not available at the moment. Leave a message.”_

  He recoiled at the sound of his own voice and almost dropped the phone.

  An ambulance drove by causing him to flinch violently at the sound. He looked around. The street felt like it was spinning. White lights started to flash behind his eyes. Again. He pressed his palm against the corner of the phone booth. He felt pressure on his stomach, his legs felt weightless, his arms too heavy. He squeezed his eyes shut.

_“Will you commit to this this program?”_

  “I can’t,” James grunted.

  He pushed himself away from the phone and towards the edge of the street. His breaths were heavy and exhausting.

  He felt eyes on his back. It was different, though. Different from what he'd felt earlier. He almost certain someone was following him. He took a left turn and made the mistake of peeking over his shoulder.   

  He _was_ being followed.

  It was the third guard from the bank. The one covering the elevators. James gritted his teeth and pressed his head down. He glanced to his left. Another man was following him. He was nearing James from the west. James sighed. There were two guys on his tail and his headache was agonizing.

  The streets of Zurich were swarmed with people. As he passed a flock of people he noticed most of them were clutching to some sort of flyers advertising a science fair. The whole city was buzzing with life making it hard for him to concentrate. He needed to shake off the two men following him, but all he could hear were gleeful screams and chatter in at least three different languages.

  He flinched at the sound of a car driving by, then again when a motorcycle engine roared to life.

  There was a large group of people chatting up a little further down the road. James made his way to them, circled around the cluster, hopefully disappearing amongst the flock and bowed his head down. He reached for his hood and pulled it over his head. His pulse was steadily quickening as he stopped in the middle of the street.

  The road was blocked by a crowd. He looked around. His eyes scanned the street rapidly, trying to find a gap between the mass of people. His pulse rang in his ears as he felt eyes on him again and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

  He spotted a big white building few hundred meters ahead, craned his neck and saw the flag attached to the pole at the front of the building. His blood rushed as he started to make his way towards the embassy. He managed to take five steps before his path was blocked and he pulled to a halt.

  He could see the embassy doors from where he was standing but had no way of reaching them. The crowd blocked his view of any possible threats and the voice in his head was screaming at him, screeching and scraping the insides of his brain.

_Exit. Where is the nearest exit?_

  James got on his tiptoes. He strained his neck as he tried to see past the sea of black coats. He saw nothing but the backs of peoples’ heads and felt elbows jabbing his sides. Suddenly he was all too aware of the ideal sniper posts on the rooftops of the buildings surrounding him. He glanced at the constructions, and immediately saw three optimal spots to place a sniper. He shivered at the notion and took a step back terrified. How did he know that?

  His breathing became shallow again. An ambulance drove by, its sirens howling and covering all the other ambient noise. He jumped back startled. He got a few confused looks from the people standing closest to him, and decided to start making his way to the embassy doors.

  “Sorry,” he murmured and pushed his way through the wall of people. “So sorry. Excuse me.”

  When he finally made it to the embassy, he fumbled to find his american passport. He showed it to the guard outside. She barely looked at the passport before waving him in, her face a complete mask of boredom.

  The embassy was just as loud as the street outside had been, if not louder. And just as packed. James counted at least seventy people in the lobby. There were three  queues leading to the back of the large white room. He assumed the clerks and their booths were at the back of the room, but he couldn't quite see past the swarm of people standing in cluttered lines.

  He had no memory of the place, but for some reason he knew what was behind the two pillars facing east, and he knew exactly which was the fastest way out. He'd counted four guards around the queues, and another two at the entrance. He knew where the ambassador's office was and he knew the exact placement of the security cameras.

_Security cameras._

  He heaved a heavy sigh as he slowly became aware of how mindlessly he'd walked into the embassy. He hadn't bothered to hide his face from the cameras, and was silently cursing himself for it. Why did he have to hide from the cameras though? The headache was  _killing_ him.

  James walked around the hall for a while, trying to examine the place as subtly as possible, simultaneously being mindful of the cameras, and casually dodging them.

   “–It was like that two days ago when I first started waiting in line outside. I filled the questionnaire last week, if I could just speak to the last guy–”

  James turned around quickly. He saw a blond man standing at the counter, locked in an intense argument with the clerk.

  “I have no money, no phone and no way to renew my visa,” he spoke rapidly and started to fidget with the pile of papers on the counter in front of him. He raised his hands up. His strained posture relaxed as his shoulders slumped forward. He let out a frustrated sigh. “Look is there anything you can do to speed up the process,” he asked softly. He stared at the messy counter and started to collect his papers while sighing unnecessarily loudly.

  “Can I help you?”

  James ripped his gaze from the man at the counter. He turned around and landed his eyes on a brute of a man in a guard's uniform.

  “Sir?” the guard asked, a tinge of a southern accent in his booming voice. He eyed James cautiously while his hand edged to the radio attached to his belt.

  Next to his radio, the guard had a holstered Glock 19. Its matte black color caught James’ eye. He grounded his feet. The guard took another step closer. A plan was beginning to form in James' head. He smiled. 


	5. Chapter 5

Langley, Virginia.       

 “It’s been confirmed. Mission failed,” Sitwell announced the room of agents stooping over their computers.    

  Sharon peeked from behind her laptop, looked at the big screen at the front of the room and frowned contemplatively. She’d been called in just two hours ago to join what was shaping up to be the biggest CIA manhunt since the Schmidt case in 2009.   

  She was running on four hours of sleep and not nearly enough coffee.

  “James Barnes,” the monitor behind Sitwell flickered to life. “CIA special agent gone rogue. He dropped off the radar last November. Your job,” Sitwell turned around and pointed the agents, drawing a wide arc with his two index fingers, “Is to find him.

  The photo on the display changed. Two photos of a man in his early thirties filled the screen. A list appeared under the photos.

  “Last seen in Zurich,” Sitwell walked to the other side of the room, towards his desk. He gestured vaguely towards the intel on display. His forehead creased as he took a sip from his cup.    

  Sharon eyed the intel on the screen. The two photos were as contrasting as night and day. In one, Barnes was cleanshaven in his neat Dress Blues, his short hair well groomed and slicked back. Everything about the photo screamed meticulous marine. Barnes was barely recognizable in the second one. His hair was long, almost brushing his shoulders, and dirty. Slick with grease and covered by a dark hood.

  The image quality from the Zurich US embassy was grainy, but Sharon could see enough to realize that the man on the right was a hollow shell of his former, tidy, self.

  Her eyes moved to the text underneath the photos. There were eight known aliases and five residencies listed in white writing. Sharon grabbed her pen from behind her ear and started to write the names down. She could get the IT guys to check them out. ‘The 21st century is a digital book. Everyone leaves a fingerprint.’ or at least Sitwell always said so. Hopefully at least one of Barnes’ aliases had left a fingerprint somewhere.

  “He went to the bank then,” Sharon asked while writing the third name on her notepad.   

  From the corner of her eye, she noticed the sharp glance Sitwell shot her. The man was about as meek as a house cat, but it was five AM. Nobody liked to hold briefings that early.

  “Yes, our source at the bank confirmed.” Sitwell’s voice was still raspy from sleep. He reached for the tiny remote on his desk and pressed a button. The image on the big screen changed.   

  “Why?” She pressed on and ignored his muted irritation.    

  Sitwell looked down and back at the screen behind him.    

  “He’s gotta assume we had an eye on the bank,” she continued, to Sitwell’s obvious annoyance.    

  “I don’t know,” he stated simply and shrugged. “He cleaned out the box. Left the gun,” he shrugged again. “I don’t know what it means. I thought he was supposed to be dead.”   

  The weight of the words made Sharon draw back and focus her attention back on the computer screen in front of her. It had the exact same image on it as the big screen at the front of the room. She eyed the black and white screencap trying to make some sense out of it.  

  “Frankly,” Sitwell began, clearing his voice, “What concerns me more is what happened at the embassy.” He pressed play. The screen twitched and returned to life.

  “US embassy, Zurich,” he said. “Yesterday, noon.”

  A few figures moved around the hall. Sharon counted three guards from the camera’s point of view, then she saw him.

  The quality was poor, but she could make out Barnes entering the frame. He carried himself cautiously, turning around to subtly scope out the place. His shoulders were stooped forward, covering most of his face. Barnes turned to face the camera, then he turned quickly away and hid his face.

  A guard appeared on the screen. He started talking to Barnes. His posture changed from tense and on guard to relaxed and casual. The guard walked towards Barnes, his hands resting on his belt. Barnes’ posture changed too, slightly, just enough for a trained eye to spot it, as he spoke to the guard. His posture became more confident, his back straight and his shoulders aligned. The posture of the honest man who had nothing to hide. Barnes was still managing to hide his face from the camera. He talked to the guard for a good while, motioning slightly with his hands as he spoke, and even smiling a few times. The guard’s shoulders quivered and he took a step back, flashing Barnes a smile.

  Barnes was joking with him. Playing the charm card.

  Then a blond man walked into frame and everything changed.

  Barnes’ posture shifted, he crouched forward like a prey animal about to attack. The arrangement on the big screen changed drastically. Barnes hurled himself at the guard, grabbed his gun with extreme precision, swirled around him and hit him in the back of his head. The guard fell and Barnes turned around. He discharged five bullets in seemingly random directions. His aim was too high to hit people, he was taking out the other cameras in the embassy. Then he  spun back to the one Sharon was watching him through.

  Barnes was in complete control of the situation. His stance was wide, shoulders leveled. He was holding the gun with two hands, stabilizing it. It was all very textbook-like.  

  Barnes aimed gun straight at the camera. He frowned. A white light flashed at the muzzle of the gun, then the feed turned to static. The screen went black.

  The entire video was barely thirty seconds long.

  Sharon stared at her laptop screen in shock.

  Was Barnes really arrogant enough to launch a full blown attack at a US embassy? He already had a target on his back, he didn’t need the additional complications created by attacking an embassy.    

  “James Buchanan Barnes. Blue eyes, brown hair. Five foot eleven. Find him,” Sitwell roared.

  Sharon blinked at him, still shaken by the video footage.

  Sitwell started to write on the whiteboard, pressing the marker against its smooth surface unnecessarily hard. “One, two, three. Those are yours, Rollins,” he said and pointed at the first three lines of writing and the unchecked boxes in front of each one of them. “Four and five. Carter,” he pointed at Sharon with the marker. “Yours.”

  Sharon nodded, her eyes fixed on the whiteboard.

  “Find out what the hell happened after the cameras died.” 

  Just as Sitwell was sitting on the corner of his desk, Ward rushed in waving a paper in his hand.

  “We got a hit outside the embassy,” he said and ran to Sitwell.

  “Put it on the screen,” Sitwell ordered pointing at the display with the remote.

  Sharon eyed the screen curiously. Getting caught on traffic camera was a rookie mistake. Barnes was no rookie. It didn’t make any sense. Just like it hadn’t made any sense that he’d walked straight in the line of sight of  the security camera.

  The photo was blurry and just like the footage from the embassy, black and white. Barnes was standing on the side of the road, holding the gun he’d seized from the guard hidden under his jacket. Standing opposite of him was a shorter man with light hair, the same one that had walked into frame just before Barnes had killed the cameras. The shorter man was leaning against an old run-down Mini car. Behind the two men, in the background were hundreds of people huddled on the street.

  The science fair, Sharon remembered.

  She squinted at the image. The license plate was half-visible in the shot. She made a mental note of checking it out after the briefing.  

  “Unreal,” Cameron sighed from next to her while typing something on his computer.    

  She shot him a questioning look. “What?”   

  He smiled. “Guy’s a pro. Have you seen his record?” he raised an eyebrow while scrolling through Barnes’ intel. When he saw Sitwell’s pointed look, he leaned closer, continuing in a more hushed voice. “Being caught on traffic cam is not what guys of his caliber do.”   

  Sharon nodded and looked at Barnes’ face on the screen. Something wasn’t right.

  “Who’s the blondie?” Sitwell asked pointing at the screen.   

  “No clue,” Ward said. “Innocent bystander,” he offered shrugging.

  Sitwell seemed lost in thought. His brow creased. “I want eyes on that car. Call in the sleepers and get me intel on the blond kid. I want to know everything there is to know. Family, friends, last known address, tweets, I don’t care. Get me a face and then get me a name.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s go people. I want Barnes in a bodybag by sundown. And someone get the coffee machine running.”   

  The agents scattered, each to their own designated assignments. Sharon closed her laptop, slamming the lid shut a little harder than necessary. She eyed the pile of paperwork next to it. Sighing, she grabbed the pile and her laptop, starting to walk towards her work station.    

  Cameron struggled to keep pace with her as she walked down the corridors to her cubicle. “Do you think it’s legit?” he asked.   

  Sharon stopped and turned around. “That’s not really my concern,” she said gazing longingly at Cameron’s coffee cup.    

  He sighed, “Here, you can have it.” He handed her the cup and received a small smile in exchange.    

  “Thanks,” she said and drank greedily. “Sitwell’s briefings work like Ambien,” she said, stretching and yawning.    

  She walked to her cubicle and dropped the files on her desk with a loud thud.     

  “Something just isn’t right. What do you think is going on?” Cameron pressed on as he pulled his chair next to hers. “It just doesn’t make sense.”   

  She held her hand up. “I know,” she said slowly and looked around for people. Cameron smiled victoriously.    

  “But,” she stated firmly. “That is not our assignment.”   

  “I know, I know,” he said and pushed his chair away from her desk. “But I was right,” he grinned.    

  “Yeah, Yeah.” Sharon eyed the pile of papers on her desk and felt her stomach drop. “Today is going to be so boring,” she mumbled, mostly to herself, and started to skim through the files. She sighed, opened her laptop and cleaned herself a small spot on her cluttered desk. “So boring,” she added. Her laptop screen turned white and a small wheel started to spin. She tapped the edge of her desk impatiently as the laptop purred, and slowly came to life.     

  “Coffee?” Cameron asked from the corner of the office.    

  “So much,” Sharon called back as she typed in her password.

***

After hours of skimming through reports and photos of Barnes, one lousy meal and approximately five gallons of coffee, Sharon finally found a file with solid intel. Its pages were heavily redacted, which meant it was something big and important. The blacked out pages seemed daunting, but she could make enough sense out of it. She reached for her coffee mug and frowned at the thick file.    

  “Let’s do this,” she cracked her knuckles and started to comb through the lines, trying to find unredacted words.   

  From what she could gather, the file was about a clandestine U.S. operation, code named The Winter Soldier Program, or The WS Program. The program included scientists of high rank, including the world-renowned, late Swiss biochemist, Arnim Zola.    

  The middle of the page was mostly redacted but she could make out four words. _Experiment in coercive persuasion._      

  She paused. She’d never heard those words before, so she opened her web browser and googled them. The results made her recoil.   

_Brainwashing._

  Sharon peeked from her cubicle. She saw only a few agents had stayed in late. Cameron had left three hours ago, she remembered. He’d brought her a fresh cup of coffee and looked at the files she still had to go through, mumbled something along the lines of ‘sorry’, wished her good luck on her hunt, and disappeared carrying his heavy parka.

  Besides her, there were four more agents stooped over their desks, half-asleep, combing through James Barnes intel, trying to find something remotely useful for their manhunt. Sharon may have remembered their names if she wasn’t so sleep deprived.   

  Sharon looked at the clock, then at the door. She fixed her posture forcing her eyes back on the file.     

  Frustratingly, the actual science and technology behind the program was heavily blacked out. From the information that was still readable, she could pick up just enough details to understand that the program was using some kind of modified ECT.   

  “So electroshock,” she stated bluntly rubbing her eyes. She blindly reached for her coffee while reading the rest of the page. Five hours had passed with her crouched over her desk. She was starting to see black lines where there were none. An agent walked past her desk, wished her a goodnight and disappeared somewhere in the haze beyond Sharon’s desk. She responded with an incoherent mumble as she read the file intently.   

  Her nerves crackled as she speed-read through the rest of the page.    

  Somehow the scientists, she gathered there were four judging by the amount of redacted lines, along with the CIA had managed to find the golden ratio of drugs and physical torture to create a master assassin.    

  The behavioral changes that occurred during The WS Program were linked to chemical responses in the brain, induced by both an almost deadly cocktail of drugs, and a high-voltage ECT. Far higher than what a regular human could endure, in fact, almost high enough to cook flesh.

  Sharon’s stomach turned. She hurried to read the rest of the passage.

  The external stimuli apparently triggered the release of neurochemicals that produced various reactions in the brain, resulting in heightened target awareness, excellent observational skills, peak physical condition and lightning fast reflexes.

  The program was basically designed to create superhumans that were easy to control. By lowering the subject’s inhibitions and heightening their sense of obedience through a bunch of procedures Sharon dreaded to even think about, the Agency had managed to create somewhat of a perfect soldier.

  The physical torture along with the drug-induced high that allowed the subject to last longer than any normal human could, was enforced by persistent training issued and carried out by the Central Intelligence Agency.

  The report never actually named the CIA as the one to carry out the program. It was redacted, but Sharon didn’t need much imagination to figure it out.

  The program had been tested only once.    

  She could feel her heart kicking in her neck as she read the last section.    

  _The Winter Soldier Program (WS Program) has been terminated as of November 5, 2013, after the subject showed increased signs of hostility and disobedience against their handler._

  Her insides twisted.   

  The subject was James Barnes, she was certain of it. She pushed the file away looking at it petrified.

  After a few seconds, she gathered enough courage to look around. The office was almost empty, only two more agents lingered. She still felt eyes on her back. The big clock at the front of the room was noisier than Sharon remembered it to be, the light above her cubicle flickered. On and off, and on again. Even the coffee machine was churning loudly.

  Sharon had no idea how the file had ended up on her desk. The Winter Soldier Program was a level seven operation. She was level four, maybe level five if she got special clearance from Sitwell, which she hadn’t gotten. Not for the Barnes manhunt, not yet. She could only think of two options.

  Either someone had planted the file to set her up, or someone had made a mistake and it had accidentally ended up in her pile. Maybe it was meant for Sitwell originally. He was level seven.

  Sharon gritted her teeth as she eyed the file suspiciously. Why would anyone want to set her up?  

  She should have gone to her supervisor right then and there. She could have shown him her discoveries. Sitwell was still in the building, she knew he always stayed in late. He would have listened to her. Sharon’s heart was pounding in her chest.

  She shouldn’t have read the file.

  It was not meant for her eyes, and now, she couldn’t unsee what she’d just read. The CIA was conducting a manhunt for a weapon they had helped to create. It was almost as bad as losing a biological weapon to the opposition. Barnes was essentially a scandal in the making. The press would rip the Agency a new one, not to mention the Congress.

  She reached for her cup with shaky hands only to realize it was empty. She let her arm hang limp on the edge of the desk.    

  Her instinct told her to do nothing. Her loyalty to the CIA told her to report it to Sitwell.    

  She sat there a good while, considering all her possibilities and all the possible outcomes from each one.

  For some reason, she thought of Director Fury’s death. He’d been killed just six days ago. The prime suspect then had been the nameless assassin the Agency affectionately nicknamed ‘Crossbones’. Three days ago new evidence had arisen and the spotlight had turned directly and unwaveringly to Barnes. The tide had turned too quickly for it to be believable. Maybe the press had bought it, but she sure as hell didn’t.  

  Someone had planted evidence against Barnes. Someone had decided to make him the scapegoat for Fury’s murder. She figured as much, because that was what she would have done had she wanted to turn the suspicion away from herself. A CIA agent gone rogue was more interesting of a story than some nameless and faceless assassin that no one besides the Agency had any evidence of.    

  No one really believed that Crossbones even existed. So cue in Barnes. It was a handy way to get rid of a science experiment gone wrong. They’d made him superhuman but he was no longer on their side. His one sole purpose had been to be compliant and he’d stopped being that back in November. Barnes had to be terminated, and Fury’s death had given the Agency a good reason for it. No wonder Sitwell had been so pushy about it. Normally rogue agents were taken in alive. Sitwell had been specific about wanting him dead. That meant Barnes was a liability.

  Something in Sharon’s head clicked then.   

  Why had Fury been killed off in the first place? Not just how – the man had extensive security and was heavily armed and skilled in combat himself – but why? There were a lot of outside threats for the Director of the CIA, but usually terrorist organizations took credit for their assassination attempts, even failed ones. If AIM or HYDRA had been behind the attack, they would have been loud and rowdy about it. They would have taken credit for the murder within twenty four hours of confirmed death. They hadn’t.

  The AC was too high, the room was freezing. Sharon wrapped her arms around herself. Her foot tapped the floor frantically as she was trying to place the pieces of the puzzle together.

  The file was level seven, need to know only. The wording didn’t make sense.

  Sharon’s heart almost stopped beating as the realization dawned on her. Fury hadn’t been need to know. The program had been a clandestine operation within a clandestine government agency.

  “Holy fucking inception,” she exhaled slowly.

  Fury had found out about the program, which meant he hadn’t been authorized to know about it in the first place, which in turn meant that she most certainly wasn’t authorized either.    

  She slapped her laptop lid shut and closed the file she’d just spent hours reading. Then she thought better of it, opened the file and started to wipe it clean with her sleeve.

  She was probably being paranoid after the gallons of coffee she’d consumed, but she could have sworn she’d seen a red sniper dot hovering above her desk, against the walls of her cubicle. She flinched, turned around to eye the back of the room, then turned back around and wiped the covers of the file. Her breathing became shallow as she covered The WS Program file with the other files and grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair.

  She felt eyes on her. Almost like the room was filled with people and everyone of them was staring at her. Much like Barnes, she felt a target on her back. The AC was clattering loudly. Sharon could almost hear someone crawling through the vents. She shouldn’t have read the file. She was not authorized. After wiping the rest of her desk meticulously, she ripped her coat from her chair and started to retreated from her cubicle and walk towards the elevators.   

  It was 11.03 PM when she dashed through the elevator doors on the ground floor. She forced a smile to the guard at the front door. He smiled back at her, then returned his attention to the old Field and Stream hunting magazine he was skimming through.   

  “Fuck,” she uttered as she walked to the parking lot. “Fuck.”   

  She got in her car. The keys dropped from her shaking hands three times before she managed to shove them into the ignition and start the car. The engine roared to life startling Sharon with its loud grumble. She fixed her rearview mirror, checked the backseat, just in case, then drove off.

  As she turned to George Washington Memorial Parkway, all she could think of was the word ‘insight’. For some reason it was stuck in her head.

  “Insight,” she said carefully. It meant nothing to her. She leaned in to turn the radio on. Loud music filled the car, echoing off the windows. Sharon turned the volume louder. Maybe, if she turned it loud enough, she would forget about the yellow covered file she’d just read. Maybe the music would drown everything else.

  “What the fuck is insight,” she whispered to herself as she drove over the Potomac.

  The river was black, just like the sky. The light of the faint streetlights reflected off its still surface illuminating the strip of water along the bridge. Despite the music blasting through Sharon's stereos, the world seemed quiet and still. The blurry darkness beyond the bridge created an illusion of a void.

  A car's headlights blinked in her rearview mirror, telling her to drive faster. “I’m going, I’m going,” she snapped switching gears and accelerating. The black SUV driving behind her honked, then dashed past her and cut her off.

  Sharon slammed the horn more out of habit than actual frustration. The illusion was shattered leaving behind a humid and heavy shadow. Her car was suffocatingly hot, so she cracked the window open. She took a deep breath. The cold night air filled her lungs with prickling pain. She pressed her head agains the seat's headrest.

  “Insight,” she said once more, dragging out the word.

  It had been mentioned in Barnes’ file. But that wasn’t where she remembered it from.  


	6. Chapter 6

Steve was _not_ having a good day.

  First, he’d waited in line at the embassy for over twelve hours just to get his government benefits – which he ended up not getting – then, he’d been kidnapped. And _then_ , the guy who had kidnapped him made Steve drive him to Paris.

  Sure, he had offered Steve twenty thousand Euros for it. But it _still_ counted as kidnap. At least Steve hoped so. It made his developing Stockholm syndrome a lot more acceptable. And a little more bearable.

  “My name is James,” the man huffed. His voice was hoarse and croaky from disuse. Steve gathered he didn’t look much like the talking type anyway.

  “Okay,” Steve said. He would have said something a lot snarkier, but his kidnapper still had the gun he’d taken from the embassy guard. Its matte black barrel rested on his thigh, pointed directly at Steve.

  “What is your name,” James croaked, his words labored and heavy. Steve saw him shift in his seat uncomfortably.

  “Does it matter,” he whispered under his breath. His fingers curled around the steering wheel.

  James rolled his left shoulder against the back of his seat. He sighed. “I guess not.” It was a small sound. Steve would have thought it almost broken-sounding, if the situation had been different.

  “Take a left here,” James instructed and sunk deeper into his seat, the gun still in his lap.

  Steve shifted gears and did as he was told.

  “I’m sorry.”

  James had been saying that ever since the embassy. He’d said that after he’d incapacitated the guard and grabbed Steve. He’d said that when he’d pressed the stolen gun against Steve’s throat and lead him out. Steve suppressed another snarky remark and squeezed the steering wheel harder.

  James reached forward towards the radio. He started to play with the buttons, trying to find a station he liked, then leaned back and closed his eyes.

  Steve almost thought about crashing the car. He could have rammed the car into the railing at the side of the road and flee the scene. James would be too busy tearing his face out of the dashboard to be occupied with Steve running away. There were no gas stations around, but he could have probably made it back to Zurich in a day or so. All he had to do was to jerk the steering wheel abruptly to the right.

  He didn’t.

  He remembered the embassy. The man sitting next to him had crazy fast reflexes and would most definitely not hesitate to use them against Steve. That wasn’t the only thing that had stilled his hands.

  Steve was broke. He had three bank accounts but only a total of twenty Euros in his name. Probably not even that. He hadn’t checked his balance for a good while, so he was fairly certain it was nearing negative numbers. Twenty thousand Euros sounded damn tempting. Sure, the guy had threatened to put a bullet in his throat, but he had also offered him more than a years worth of government benefits. He couldn't be all bad.

  Steve frowned at the snowy road. The little angel pendant he’d gotten from his mother was hanging on the rearview mirror, clinking against the metal, sounding almost joyful. It glimmered in the darkness of the car, much like a star. Steve brushed its golden surface with the ball of his thumb. He let his hand fall in his lap.

  Steve noticed James had opened his eyes and was looking at the angel. He opened his mouth, about to say something, but then closed it and turned to face the window, hiding his face from Steve.

  “Five years ago I took all the money I had, which was a lot more than I have now, and left for Barcelona,” Steve said, more to himself than anything else.

  James flinched at the sound of his voice, but didn’t turn around.

  Steve continued, “It was beautiful. I was working at a studio, painting, giving tours. Life was amazing. It was amazing for about five months, then the owner decided to throw us out. Then...”

  James stirred again. This time he turned around. He eyed Steve carefully, his mouth twisting downwards. ”Then what?” His words seemed calculated, soft and alert.

  “Then what?” Steve asked and shrugged. “You’re listening?”    

  James nodded. His eyes were tired and bloodshot, with purple shadows underneath. “I am.”

  “Then this,” Steve gestured in turn at James, the car, him.

  James sighed again. “I am sorry.” He sounded honest enough. Steve almost believed him.

  “You have a gun aimed at me,” he said. More to remind himself of the situation than to further antagonize James.

  Steve blinked. He was so developing Stockholm syndrome.  

  James frowned. He glanced at his lap, his eyes widened slightly as he noticed the gun, seemingly for the first time. He swiftly tightened his grasp on it, pulled the slide back and disassembled the gun. The ammunition box landed on his lap along with a single separate bullet. James dropped the rest of the gun on his lap, then wiped his hands on his hoodie.

  “Old habits. Apparently,” he whispered. It sounded like an accusation. His eyes focused on the road, refusing to look at Steve and instead frowned at the darkness beyond the faint headlights of the car.

  Steve shifted gears. The gearbox screeched loudly, its metallic rumble filling the silence. “Should’ve kidnapped someone with a better car,” Steve sneered without looking away from the road.

  James stifled a throaty chuckle. “Yeah, guess I should have.”

  “Don’t let the looks fool you, this Mini has the heart of a true road warrior,” Steve said and gave the dash a quick pat. He’d gotten the car over six years ago. Bought it off an Irish fisherman. The car had been good to him. He sometimes even affectionately called it Cap, for Captain. Captain of what, he wasn't sure.

  James huffed and shifted in his seat, this time so he was almost facing Steve. His pale eyes beamed in the dark, piercing it. Steve glanced at him with the intention to look away immediately, only to find it impossible. There was something in James’ eyes that stilled him. An anger of some sort, a furious storm trapped within, that made it nearly impossible for Steve to look away.

  Luckily, he didn’t have to.

  James turned back around to face the open road misinterpreting Steve’s curiosity as fright.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  Steve picked up a hint of an accent from that one word. He wouldn’t have noticed it if it wasn’t the same accent that he was trying to get rid of as well. “You’re from Brooklyn, right?”

  James stirred. For a criminal prone to kidnapping people and firing guns in an embassy, he was unbelievably jumpy. “I don’t...”

  Steve reached towards the radio. He turned the volume up. “Classical music?”

  James shrugged. “It’s calming,” he said.

  “Alright.” Steve leaned back in his seat, moved around to find a comfortable position and started to chew on the inside of his cheek.

  Steve counted fifty kilometers pass in complete silence. He looked at the dash, just about to add another kilometer to his calculations, when James spoke. Steve froze at his tone, his fingers digging deeper into the soft leather of the steering wheel.

  “I can’t remember anything beyond two weeks.”

  “Lucky you,” Steve said and nodded at the dashboard. He wished he didn't remember some stuff that had happened to him in the past weeks.

  “I’m not joking,” James whispered. “I don’t know who I am.” His voice was soft, still raspy but gentle. Suddenly Steve was feeling all too sympathetic towards his captor.

  “Stockholm syndrome,” he mumbled under his breath. If James had heard anything, he hadn’t shown it. Steve wondered if he would’ve even cared. Probably not.

  “I have no sense of identity. I have no idea who I am– or who I was… Before,” James trailed off, his eyes looking vacantly out of the window.

  “What, like amnesia,” Steve suggested skeptically.

  “I guess.”

  “Oh.” It was a small sound, and all Steve managed to say, but it seemed to have an effect on James. His shoulders slumped forward, no longer tense, and his head sunk in the seat’s headrest.

  “I am not going to hurt you,” James whispered with his eyes closed.

Steve gazed at his profile. For a moment he believed it. That should have been his first clue to crash the car and run as far as he could, never mind the damage. But the car was warm and the world outside was cold. He had his art supplies, he had his inhaler and he had a stranger with a lot of money sitting next to him. The world outside his car had very little to offer him.


End file.
